Metamorphosis
by intastella burst
Summary: It's the most wonderful time of the year . . . Or it's supposed to be. Hermione Granger's Christmas is turning out to be less than wonderful as she prepares for the evening's Yule Ball, which hangs over her head like a death warrant. One-shot.


December 25, 1994

5:15 p.m.

_I can't believe I'm going through with this._

_  
_The Gryffindor fourth-year girls' dormitory was a scene of total bedlam. All those who had been lucky enough to be asked to the upcoming ball or else brave (or foolhardy, depending on how one looked at it) enough to ask a boy were rushing around the tower with the velocity and destructive power of a tornado. Hair-care potions, various make-up products, and an assortment of colorful dress robes flew about the room as wildly as the snowflakes dancing in the sky outside. But the weather was the last thing on most of the girls' minds today.

Despite her mental distress, Hermione couldn't help but smile at the sight of Parvati Patil squealing frantically, asking anyone who would listen whether they thought that her date would prefer the gold or the silver bangles.

"Oh, Merlin, _Harry Potter_!" she gasped distractedly, collapsing on her four-poster in a heap of hot-pink satin. Hermione looked at her patronizingly. It was just Harry that Parvati was needlessly working herself up over; Hermione knew that he couldn't care less about the metal his date's bracelets were made of. _Just Harry_. Her smile faded as she recalled the far more formidable identity of _her _date. She wasn't personally intimidated by him, or anything. She, Hermione Granger, be intimidated by a boy? Ha! It was laughable. But it was nonetheless true that Viktor Krum was a world-famous Quidditch player; admittedly, a rather good-looking Quidditch player. Everyone was expecting his date to be something special; she was sure of it. Her stomach tensed, threatening to regurgitate her lunch, as the reality of what she was about to do hit her with its full force: to enter the Great Hall on his arm, to be put under the scrutiny of the students of three schools of magic, to be known to the world as his date, as his _girlfriend_! They must be expecting someone quite beautiful, special—one of the Ginnys and Fleurs of the world. And what did he have? Bushy-haired, buck-toothed her! The dim lighting of the library had probably fooled the poor boy as to her appearance. He was in for a nasty surprise, then.

She grinned ruefully, gazing at the assortment of frizz-reducing, complexion-clearing, and breath-freshening products on the bed in front of her. No one could accuse her of not doing her research thoroughly.

But would it be enough? Books couldn't help her with something like this, and her intellectual powers wouldn't be much assistance either, unless Viktor--she laughed inwardly at the foreign feel of his name in her thoughts--enjoyed discussing astronomic charts and tables of runes over his dinner. No, it would just be her guts and her reflexes tonight. Why, this would be just like a Defense Against the Dark Arts exam! Perhaps it wouldn't be _too _dreadful.

An experiment. Yes, that's how she would think of it--as a crucial step in a study examining the social habits of magical teenagers. And if she had to descend into the depths of girly pinkness, to enter the stronghold of femininity that she had valiantly fought since the age of six (when she had gone through a traumatic experience involving a Barbie doll--it was a long story), then so be it.

She sighed. Why even try? She couldn't kid herself, not about something like this. Schoolwork had nothing to do with it. If she was honest with herself, the reason she had agreed to go with Viktor was that she _liked _him, plain and simple as that. And now she was worried that he wouldn't like her.

"Hermione!" Lavender Brown turned away from her complex ball preparations, which involved fermented rose petals and the dried skin of a purple toad (worked wonders on blackheads) to shrilly address the other girl, breaking her protracted reverie. "I forgot to ask you: who're _you _going with?" Hermione smiled evasively.

"Um, no one in particular," she replied mischievously. Lavender gave her a disappointed and slightly vindictive look before turning back to her primping. Hermione didn't care very much about Lavender's reaction to the identity of her date. But it made her think . . .

When a certain someone who happened to be a stupid prat, or who at least greatly resembled one at the moment, saw her enter the Great Hall on the arm of his idol--oh, she could hardly wait. _Thank you, Lavender, for that happy thought!_

Hermione's parents had often informed her, in tones of amazement, that they didn't believe she had a mean bone in her body, that she was the best-behaved child they had ever met. Perhaps, she conceded, but she currently felt a distinctly uncharitable twinge in her right pinky toe.

Who did Ronald Weasley think he was, anyway? Silly boy, to think that she wouldn't ace this thing just like her exams, although it was true that this would be a tad more difficult. The mere thought of being under the careful inspection of all of those condemning, judging eyes made her insides squirm uncomfortably. . . .

He didn't need to know that, though. She sprang to her feet, new energy surging through her, a feeling that she usually associated with learning her new class schedule. She gingerly lifted her brand-new (and quite expensive) light blue dress robes from their place at the foot of her bed and collected an assortment of what appeared to be the most powerful beauty products. Precariously balancing all of this in her arms, she headed for the bathroom. She might as well go all out for this. A Muggle phrase flashed through her mind at random—_If I'm going to hell, I might as well do it thoroughly._

She laughed out loud at the thought, earning a few odd looks from her classmates. She didn't care, though. She was on a giddy high, perhaps brought on by nervousness or by the idea of showing Ron a thing or two. Or maybe it was just that all of the Bertie Bott's Beans she had eaten earlier were finally entering her system; she had always known that she had a low threshold for sugar.

She pictured Viktor's surprisingly large and earnest eyes, his adorable way of mispronouncing her name, and his graceful way of moving, which boded well for dancing. Suddenly, she felt that the having fun part wouldn't be _too _difficult.

She could morph back into her book-wormish self, her true self, tomorrow.

But Christmas was a day for miracles.


End file.
